


Sunrise

by bompeii



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ishbalan | Ishvalan, Angst, Ishbalan Character(s) | Ishvalan Character(s), Ishvalan!Elrics, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, The Ishval War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-09 02:08:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12877920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bompeii/pseuds/bompeii
Summary: Looking at them together, you'd see the differences as much as the similarities. Ed's skin was a lighter tan and his eyes gleamed gold. Al's skin was darker, his eyes a bright crimson. But their hair shared the same sandy blond shade, as pale as the desert in which they were born.Ed and Al didn’t always live in Resembool.  And their last name wasn’t always Elric.---An Ishvalan!Elrics AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. I wrote a thing. This will likely continue as I become more consumed by the story's progression. Tags may change the further along we go.

Ed’s hair is a soft, pale blond that shimmers in the sunlight and looks bleached during the winter. His skin is two shades darker than any other Amestrian he’s met in Resembool, but also two shades lighter than his friends and family out in the desert.

His eyes are a vibrant gold, and some days they feel like tiny suns burning with a fire he never really learned how to control.

Al is different, and yet he really isn’t. His skin is closer to their mother’s tone - a smooth bronze - and his wide eyes reflect her crimson gleam. His hair is the same muted sandiness shared by Ed, but it looks closer to pastel snow in contrast with his face.

They lived in a country house surrounded by grass and big evergreen oak trees. The nearest neighbors lived a long crossroads away, and the open spaces allowed a breeze to carry undisturbed. Those who weren’t familiar with the countryside personally wouldn’t even know where the house was, tucked amongst the blanketing hills. Secluded, one might say.

But despite the fields of ruby tulips and the friendly abundance of roaming sheep ---

Ed and Al didn’t always live in Resembool.

And their last name wasn’t always Elric.

 

\---

 

There was a Festival of Lights in the Dahlia district, November of 1895. It was a tradition to celebrate the oncoming cold months, for every respite from the desert heat was revered. Local artisans who spent the recent months crafting thousands of paper lanterns finally earned the coin for their efforts as people flocked to their vendor stalls. Each lantern was decorated with a message of gratitude for the earth god Ishvala.

In all his centuries walking this world, Van Hohenheim had attended dozens of these festivals. He found the imagery beautiful, a temporary balm on the roughened edges of his worldview. Oftentimes he bought a lantern to participate if only to support the Ishvalan economy. He would write his own message on the translucent paper beneath the note of godly appreciation, apologizing to the people of Xerxes for their unwilling sacrifice and thanking them in turn.

He was writing that message now, sitting on a bench in the local courtyard with a shortened pencil and using the residue of the passing sunset for light. Several people were mingling around him, chatting and eating and buying last-minute lanterns. Once the night had truly darkened, all the lanterns would be lit and released into the air.

A sudden presence caught Hohenheim’s attention, and he turned to his right to see a young woman sitting beside him. She held a small candle, and the flickering flame caused her darker skin to glow a beautiful copper. Her red eyes gleamed, and her long white hair was braided over her shoulder and threaded through with red string adornments. At Hohenheim’s attention, she smiled.

“Do you remember me?” she asked, in slightly-accented Amestrian. Startled, Hohenheim peered closer at her face in the small firelight shared between them, and her smile became a mischievous smirk.

“Last we saw of each other was the summer bonfire, eight years ago,” she prompted.

Hohenheim remembered, then, a younger version of this lovely face, dancing and laughing around a great pyre, insisting that Hohenheim join her. He abruptly sat up straight. “Trishka?” he asked, amazed. “You’re … you’re…”

“Seventeen. My _ritusheya_ was last month. I am officially a woman now.” She looked into his eyes unwaveringly. “I had hoped, ironically rather childishly, that you would show up to the ceremony. I did invite you, remember? At the bonfire.”

“I wasn’t…” he trailed off, uncertain of this turn of events. “I didn’t realize that much time had passed. I’m sorry.”

“It is okay,” she replied. “I figured the passing of time was irrelevant to you, as you do not age like normal people. Eight years is probably like the blink of an eye to you, yes?”

Blinking, Hohenheim shifted on the bench to face her better. “How did…?”

Trishka shrugged. “It is obvious.”

He wasn’t sure how only eight years made it obvious, but that just showed how clever Trishka was. Somehow she discovered Hohenheim’s immortality, and didn’t even seem fazed by it.

“You don’t find it … odd?” he asked, his blond brows bunching together in confusion. “Most people would at least ask how, or why, or…”

“I do not mind it,” she offered. “I imagine it has something to do with your alchemy abilities.”

That was another thing he tried not to broadcast in this region, for the way Ishvalans viewed alchemists. All his notebooks and texts on alchemy, he secured in his briefcase and left untouched once he crossed into Ishvalan soil.

He squinted with suspicion. “Have you been spying on me, Trishka?”

She laughed, a gentle breeze of sound that warmed Hohenheim’s heart as the night air began to cool.

“Only in the way of poking through your things all those years ago, when you weren’t looking. I was a very inquisitive girl at nine years old. A pale stranger such as yourself was not too uncommon in our land, now that Ishval and Amestris are joined. But there was something about you that seemed to shine even brighter than the fire. An aura of light around your golden hair. You were different.”

Hohenheim shook his head ruefully, at a loss of what to say. Before he could conjure thoughts to words, however, the sound of drums rolled across the city from every direction. The dozens of other people mingling in the courtyard stirred with motion, taking their lanterns and candles and walking towards the gates that led to the desert outskirts. Their procession joined that of other large groups doing the same.

Trishka reached down and picked up her own paper lantern by her feet. Then she stood up and looked at Hohenheim expectantly.

He stood slowly, staring at her like he’d never seen another before. Just as she saw a difference in him, he was beginning to see all the differences in her.

Side by side they walked with the rest, until everyone was crowded together just outside the gates. They lit their lanterns with Trishka’s candle and released them into the sky to join all the others, watching the specks of firelight drift towards the stars and feeling the drumbeats echo in their chests.

 

\---

 

Despite his previous travel plans, Hohenheim stayed in Dahlia for several months. The only trips out of Ishval were to get supplies or to visit his friend Pinako Rockbell and her son Yuriy in Resembool. He took a job as a translator, helping traders from Xing, Aerugo, Amestris, and Ishval communicate and connect.

Once while strolling through the open desert, he stumbled across a patch of succulents, some of the only plants able to grow in such a harsh climate. Inspired, he dug some up and brought them back to the small house he had rented. He potted them carefully and gifted them to Trishka that very evening. They began a courtship the following day.

He met Trishka’s family. The El Rikha Clan was large and ancient with many historical ties to the Ishval founders, thus they were regarded highly by the locals. Trishka, before Hohenheim had returned for the Festival of Lights, had received courtship invitations from several men of varying ages, hoping to unite into the Clan. When Hohenheim asked why she refused them all, she simply smiled up at him.

“I was waiting for someone else.”

 

\---

 

They married in 1897.

The Clan Elders refused to gift them a house within the El Rikha clan grounds, for they disapproved of a union between an Ishvalan and a non-believer. So instead the couple lived in an apartment behind Hohenheim’s botanical shop, which sold succulents and cacti of all varieties as well as glass terrariums, bottles, bowls, and other objects alchemized from desert sand. The transmutations were done in secret, of course. The Elders were disturbed enough by Hohenheim’s presence in their society; they did not need to know of his alchemical practices.

Two years later, they had their first son.

Names are sacred in Ishval. They are protected and kept in the family. One can only give out their own name at their own discretion. To share or ask for someone else’s was considered disrespectful. It’s a great act of trust, telling someone your name. Trishka gave Van Hohenheim her name that fateful night when she was nine years old, trusting the golden light she saw within him.

They named their oldest son Ezra, after Trishka’s grandfather who had died the previous summer from a respiratory disease. Their second son, born just one year later, was named Ahlim. It meant “little lion” in Ishvalan.

And they were happy. They had the store, they had family, they had each other. Short of groveling, Hohenheim never ceased his attempts to impress the Clan Elders, which humored Trishka to no end.

Ezra often played with his older cousins, who didn’t mind that he looked different. He never neglected Ahlim, though, always there when his baby brother needed him. He learned to speak both Amestrian and Ishvalan rather early, showing a quick intellect; Trishka called him her little genius taking after his father, causing Hohenheim to blush unfailingly.

Their lives were peaceful. Normal. Something Hohenheim never thought he could possibly have.

 

\---

 

In 1901, an Amestrian soldier accidentally shot and killed a young Ishvalan girl in Kanda, the largest Ishvalan district and the most occupied by Amestrians. Riots and protests quickly followed, soon spiraling out of control.

Five months later, all of Kanda was consumed in a civil war, rapidly spreading to the rest of Ishval like a plague. For the first time since he’s known her, Hohenheim saw true fear in his wife’s eyes.

They tried to keep on with regular life. The shop stayed open, though business was slow now that everyone’s main concern was food and weapons, not pretty plants or glass trinkets. The El Rikha family stayed connected, save for a few monk members that charged headfirst into the fighting. Trishka wrote to them, for though they were her cousins she loved them like brothers. They never wrote back, and soon all contact was lost.

Hohenheim realized that if they kept on like this, in pretend ignorance, he was going to outlive his family. This violence, this war, couldn’t affect him like it would Trishka or the boys. He couldn’t allow them harm, not while he was around to do something about it. For weeks he spoke with Trishka in hushed tones after the boys were put to bed, arguing over the benefits of leaving before things got worse as they inevitably would. He wanted to retreat. She wanted to stay with her family. He suggested the entire clan leave as well, and she dug her heels in deeper, swearing up and down the El Rikha would never abandon Ishval. It was a stalemate.

Despite this, he reached out to his contacts in Aerugo, formed back when he was a translator between companionable traders. The southern country was already providing aid in the form of supplies, so this correspondence was not a surprise. He planned for emergency transport and shelter, just in case … well. Just in case.

Before he could think to further the plan along, it happened.

They all woke in the middle of the night to the echo of gunshots across rooftops and shouting in the streets. Ahlim cried out, startled awake, and Trishka quickly rushed to his and Ezra’s room. Hohenheim raced to the front door to see what was happening, opening it merely a few inches to peer outside.

Soldiers in blue were marching, holding giant torches for light. Gunfire cracked like thunder throughout the dark night sky, fired straight upwards in warning shots. They yelled for everyone to leave their homes, to exit into the streets in an orderly fashion or suffer the consequences. A few people were already stumbling outside, some bleary-eyed and alarmed, others with rage in their expressions and hands clasping something unseen behind their backs.

Just as the first Ishvalan struck out, lightning quick with a butcher’s knife to the nearest jugular, Hohenheim slammed his door shut and locked it. He ran back to the boys’ room, where Trishka was hunched down and cradling a terrified Ezra and Ahlim to her chest.

“Trish,” he said, as the chaotic noises outside grew louder by the second. “We have to.”

She blinked, and even in the darkness of the room he could see the tears fall from her crimson eyes. “Yes,” she said, nodding. “Yes.”

Quickly he ran back into their bedroom and grabbed the bag he had packed just last week, stuffed under their bed for safe keeping. When he returned, Trishka was dressing Ahlim in his warmest layers, already having done so with Ezra. Ahlim refused to let go of his brother’s hand, making it difficult to dress him, so Hohenheim swooped in and picked up his oldest to rest against his hip.

The sound of shattering glass reached their ears from nextdoor. Their store was being ransacked.

Not a minute later, they were out the back door and running for their lives, keeping close to alleyways and the shadows behind their neighbor’s homes. They had to pause a few times to stay hidden, forced to watch in horror as Amestrian soldiers nearby broke down the doors of those who dared not leave their homes and tossed their great torches inside. Ezra whimpered against Hohenheim’s chest, watching his neighbors’ houses burn with wide eyes. Even more blue uniforms flooded the streets, easily outnumbering their opponents. They had to wait until the coast was clear before they could press on.

Trishka tugged on Hohenheim’s sleeve fervently. “We must go to the clan grounds,” she whispered into his ear. Ahlim was wrapped securely to her chest, trembling. “We must take whoever we can with us. They will try to fight, but they cannot win. Not against this.”

Hohenheim realized, then, that Trishka was always ready to do what was necessary to protect their children. She just wanted to do so with her clan, her family, and she knew them better than he did. She knew the El Rikha Clan would never give in and retreat like she would. They were too devout.

But Trishka, who married an immortal alchemist without so much as batting an eyelash, was a little more open-minded.

“Come,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her towards the south edge of the city, where the clan grounds resided. “There’s a car hidden in the desert outskirts. We’ll take whoever wants to come with us.”

They were nearly breathless by the time they reached the fence of the grounds, and Trishka gasped in relief at seeing the familiar structures untouched. The madness had not spread this far yet, having started at the northern gate.

The Elders stood at the entrance of the Main House, with several clan members behind them brandishing weapons that varied from longswords to crowbars to full-blown rifles. They tensed at the two shadowy figures running towards them, but calmed once they recognized who it was.

 _“Trishka,”_ said Jaleek, the oldest of the three Clan Elders. He spoke only the Ishvalan language, never having the desire to learn any other. _“Thank Ishvala you’re alive. You and the little ones.”_

Hohenheim did not mention how he was not mentioned. Instead, he hastily said, _“We must leave, now, while we still can.”_

 _“Leave?”_ Jaleek spat, his wrinkled face twisted in anger. _“How can we leave while they defile our homeland? Slaughter our people?”_ The other Elders nodded grimly, and many clan members mumbled in agreement.

 _“Please!”_ Trishka begged, stepping forward. _“There are too many of them. They have guns and torches-”_

 _“We have guns as well!”_ shouted Amira, one of Trishka’s aunts. _“We have just as much of a chance as them, and Ishvala is on our side!”_

_“You cannot win-”_

_“Have you forsaken your God already, Trishka?”_ Amira continued, outraged. _“Ever since you married that non-believer, you’ve been distant with Ishvala. You’ve lost your faith, haven’t you?”_

 _“Where would we go, anyway?”_ another voice asked, a teenager closer to the back of the group.

 _“Aerugo,”_ Hohenheim answered. _“Then, if all goes well, to a small town in Amestris.”_

_“You want to run towards the same people trying to kill us? Are you insane?”_

_“We have friends there. Allies. We’ll be safer than we would be, staying here.”_

More voices called out from among the group, their sources indecipherable.

_“We won’t be taken down so easily!”_

_“They cannot break our faith. They cannot take our land.”_

_“Fight with us, Trishka. Stay and fight!”_

Trishka was shaking her head, tears in her eyes but stubbornness upon her brow. “ _At least let us take the children. The future of Ishval must be protected!”_

The Elders stepped forward as one, red eyes ablaze. _“How dare you!”_ Jaleek’s sister, Isra, bellowed louder than seemed possible. _“We will protect them on our own.”_

At that point they could hear the gunshots and yelling suddenly get closer. Spinning around, Hohenheim saw soldiers just outside the fence entrance, about to breach. The fire of their torches covered the starry night sky in billowing smoke.

“Get behind me!” he shouted, quickly pulling Ezra from his chest and handing him over to Trishka. Her eyes bore into his, and she knew what he was about to do. He hadn’t performed alchemy in public for nearly seven years now. It was taboo, it was heresy. It would’ve led to Trishka’s banishment from the clan by association. But the soldiers were forming a line, down on one knee, rifles ready to fire…

Hohenheim knelt down and smacked both palms to the ground. Electric red light burst forth on impact, and within seconds a huge wall of compacted dirt and sand and rock rose from the earth between the soldiers and the El Rikha. Startled shouts and gunfire echoed from the other side, but the wall was too thick. The bullets couldn’t penetrate. With a forceful shove, Hohenheim sent the wall careening towards the fence. It glided across the earth like an ocean wave, sending the soldiers flying backwards and blocking off the entrance.

For a moment, all was quiet.

Then Jaleek hissed, _“I knew it.”_ Hohenheim turned around to meet his venomous glare, as well as several others from the Clan. _“I knew you were one of them. You’re worse than a non-believer. You’re a blasphemer!”_

Hohenheim sighed, feeling a wash of disappointment run through him. But one look at his wife and sons, safe and sound, and he knew he had done the right thing.

 _“Trishka, you knew he could do this?”_ Amira snarled, torn between disgust and disbelief. _“You are just as impious as he is!”_

Trishka stared at her aunt in despair, realizing from everyone’s reaction that they all felt the same way. Their anger seemed to intensify in honor of their faith. _“Please,”_ she tried again, _“It doesn’t matter. He has bought us time to escape. Please. Please!”_

Hohenheim could hear a fresh commotion start up on the other side of the new wall, commands being shouted to either find some grenades or find another way in. He went to Trishka’s side, took Ezra back into his arms, and lightly grasped her wrist.

“Trish,” he whispered, shaking his head.

She was so close to overflowing with tears, but instead she clutched Ahlim closer to her chest with one hand and brushed the other through Ezra’s pale blond hair. After a moment, she nodded, and he steered her away. Away from her shouting family. Away from the soldiers.

They ran through the streets of the clan grounds to the southernmost edge of the city, reaching the towering wall that kept out unwanted visitors like rattlesnakes and coyotes. Or, in this case, Amestrian soldiers. There was no southern gate, so Hohenheim walked forward and placed his palm against the rough stone. More red sparks flew from his fingertips, and Ezra stirred in place with a look of intrigue. Together they watched as a small doorway transmuted out of the wall, just large enough to fit the tallest of them, Hohenheim, through. Finished, he peered through to the other side to make sure the coast was clear.

Satisfied, he returned to find Trishka staring out at her family’s home - her home - with a haunted look in her eyes. Hohenheim waited a moment, allowing her a short time to grieve what they all just experienced. Just as he was about to speak, Ezra beat him to it.

“Mom,” the boy said, his first words all night since they were frightened awake. “Mom. _Madran.”_

At her son’s quiet voice, Trishka turned from her homeland and walked through the alchemized doorway. Hohenheim patted Ezra on the head and followed, not looking back.

 

\---


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Resembool and Rockbells and refuge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm working in chronological order, so bear with me.

Pinako Rockbell didn’t know what to expect when she heard frantic knocking on the front door at one o’clock in the morning, grumbling in her nightgown and trying to straighten her glasses. It certainly wasn’t two figures huddled beneath an overlarge cloak, sharing it as if to shield themselves from nonexistent rain.

“Who-” she started, but then the taller figure lifted the hood, revealing a face she hadn’t seen in a long while. “Hohenheim,” Pinako breathed, squinting into the darkness. “Is that really you?”

She went to turn on the lamp for the front porch, but quick as a flash her old friend snatched her arm, stopping her.

“No light,” he murmured, almost too quiet to hear over the summer crickets outside. “Nobody can know we’re here. We need your help, Pinako.”

She glanced, then, at the second figure standing just behind him. The cloak had shifted with Hohenheim’s sudden movement, revealing part of a face. Dark skin, white hair. Red eyes.

Pinako had never met Hohenheim’s wife. She’d only heard stories from whenever he deigned to visit Resembool, often accentuated with sappy poetic prose and besotted sighs. But Pinako was no fool. She knew what was happening in Ishval, and she knew exactly what she was in for now, opening her door to this couple. And she knew, somehow, she would never regret it.

Shrugging off Hohenheim’s grip with a sigh, Pinako stepped to the side. “In you get,” she mumbled, and the two of them dashed over the threshold. Only once the doors were shut and locked to his satisfaction did Hohenheim remove the cloak and allow Pinako to turn on a light. That’s when she noticed the two little bundles each of them carried.

The wife, her name unknown to Pinako as was the Ishvalan custom, quietly sat down on the living room sofa and rested a small child in her lap. He was barely awake, rubbing at drooped ruby eyes with little fists. His short hair puffed up every which way, ruffled and messy. Hohenheim sat next to them with another boy, bigger and paler with slightly longer hair. The children immediately reached out to one another, tangling their fingers in each other’s sleeves. All four of them were filthy, covered in dirt and sand. Pinako wondered how long they’ve been traveling for, how difficult it was to make it to her simple doorstep.

“My name is Trishka,” the younger woman offered, bowing her head slightly in greeting. “I am so sorry for the intrusion of your home.”

Pinako waved a hand at her. “Nonsense. You shouldn’t apologize for anything, dear,” she said. “In fact, it’s a pleasure to meet you at last. I’ve heard so much about you from this sorry sap, it’s almost nauseating.”

Trishka smiled, though the edges were brittle. “I have heard many tales of you, as well. There was never a short supply of drinking stories in our home.”

Pinako laughed with gusto. Then, suddenly, she pointed her finger right between Hohenheim’s eyes. “You, on the other hand, have some explaining to do! Four years, Van Hohenheim. Four ruddy years since I’ve seen your ugly mug, and this is how you drop by to say hello?”

The man smiled ruefully, rubbing the back of his head in embarrassment. “Ah. Well, you see…”

Pinako huffed, stomping across the room towards the swinging door that lead to the kitchen. “I’m gonna make us some coffee. And get you all some water. You look parched.”

Once caffeine was provided and water distributed, as well as some fruit Pinako had stored in the fridge, the older woman settled in her favorite armchair and stared Hohenheim down. “I can only guess as to what happened that caused you to come here,” she said, pulling her long pipe out of its case and packing it tightly with leaf. “I know it’s getting worse, in the east. A full-blown war zone. Everyone’s talking about it, what with Resembool being so close to the Ishvalan border.”

“Soldiers came,” Trishka started, but abruptly went silent. She ran her fingers through the younger boy’s messy hair, her eyes staring out at nothing. Remembering. Pinako’s heart ached for her.

“It was a disadvantageous situation,” Hohenheim finished, his eyes hard.

“That’s putting it lightly, it sounds.”

He hummed in agreement. “We left as soon as possible. Took a car to the Aerugonian border, a smuggling point. But we had to stay there longer than anticipated. The Amestrian border patrols in the south are vigilant. It took a few days to find our way around them.”

Pinako nodded, lighting her pipe and taking a long inhale. She blew out a ring of smoke, catching the curiosity of the bigger boy on the couch. “Four years, Hohenheim,” she repeated.

He heaved a sigh. “I’m sorry, Pinako. I didn’t mean to stay away for so long.”

“Well, it’s not exactly a surprise. I know what you’re like, after all. I just thought you might swing by to tell me, oh let’s see … the fact that you have children now, apparently.” She took another puff of her pipe. “That’s new.”

Trishka seemed to blink out of her haze of memories, smiling with more relaxation as she looked over her sons. “This is our oldest,” she said, wiping dirt off of the bigger boy’s cheek. “He just turned three this past February. Our youngest turned two last month.”

“Three, eh? The same age as my granddaughter.”

Hohenheim perked up. “You have a granddaughter? Pinako…!”

“Well, you would’ve known that if you’d shown up earlier, you idiot!” Pinako met the older boy’s gaze across the room. “Her name is Winry, by the way. She’s not here at the moment. My son’s family has a separate house closer to the clinic where they work. But I babysit her all the time. A good girl, that Winry.”

It was a subtle yet obvious invitation for an introduction from the boy, one that Pinako absolutely knew could be ignored and that would be fine. Names were kept close to the chest in Ishval, that much she’d learned from one of Hohenheim’s cultural “lectures.” She could only imagine how important it was to preserve an Ishvalan belief now more than ever.

The boy stared at Pinako for a long moment, considering. There was more oddity in his eyes than just their golden hue. An intelligence resided there the likes of which Pinako had never seen before in a child so young.

In the end, he said nothing. The trust, she assumed, wasn’t earned yet, and she didn’t blame the kid one bit. After a moment of quiet, Pinako shrugged. “What’s your plan here, Hohenheim?” she asked breezily. “I wasn’t exactly expecting guests, but you two can use Yuriy’s old space, and the boys can share Winry’s room. We’ve still got her crib, if you’d like to bring it down from the attic. And, you know, reassemble it.”

“That would be most lovely, thank you,” Trishka said. Her eyes were swimming with moisture, but she kept the tears at bay, likely for the sake of the children. Hohenheim wasn’t that far off from weeping, himself, which nearly surprised Pinako off her chair. He’d lived through dozens of wars before, she knew. Often he’d helped out the victims in any way he could, using those powers of his for a decent purpose. But he never shed a tear over the tragedies those wars expelled. Not until now.

Now, it was personal.

 

\---

 

Over the rest of summer, Pinako played host to the El Rikha refugees as best as she could. She learned their clan name from Trishka late one night into the second month, tongues loosened by a rich wine and old family stories flowing from their lips. The girl needed to vent, Pinako had decided. Keeping such emotional thoughts to herself was not a healthy coping mechanism.

She reassured Trishka that she could still see her family again, once all this fighting nonsense stopped. “Keep hope alive, dear,” she said. But the Ishvalan woman just smiled wearily and excused herself for bed.

Pinako put Hohenheim to work, obviously. He ran errands for her into the heart of the town, as well as some neighboring villages where she ordered automail supplies. It took some convincing to get him to actually leave the house. “You’re fine,” Pinako insisted, scowling. “You look Amestrian, you sound Amestrian. Nobody is going to think twice.”

“I’m not worried about me,” he replied, fidgeting. “What if someone comes by while I’m away? If the boys are too loud, or spotted in the yard, or-”

“Oh for God’s sake, they’ll be _fine,_ Hohenheim. You think I can’t take care of my own? Quit being paranoid, get out that door, and pick up my new socket wrenches from the Amarettas. They’ve been waiting long enough.”

After the first couple of day trips, his nerves calmed a bit. But he was always on edge upon leaving, even with Trishka giving him a kiss farewell.

It wasn’t just the five of them in the house, sometimes. Yuriy and his wife Sarah came by twice a week as usual, little Winry in tow. Pinako had asked Hohenheim if he wanted them to stay away, but he’d known Yuriy since the boy’s birth. He’d seen the wonderful, kind man her son had grown into - a doctor who cared for everyone equally. He was confident there wouldn’t be a problem, even after all this time not having seen each other.

And he was right. Yuriy, and Sarah also, took the whole secret situation in stride and sympathy. Although Yuriy peered quizzically at the distinct lack of wrinkles upon Hohenheim’s face, having known him for as long as he could remember and seeing absolutely no physical change in the man. Despite his obvious curiosity, he never raised a question about it beyond what skin cream Hohenheim used.

Sarah and Trishka were roughly the same age, and they got along swimmingly. They would often cook together, sharing recipes from Amestris and Ishval alike. Trishka marveled at the ingredients she’d never tried before, the desert not having the right soil to grow them and the trade market having never partook in an exchange. Sarah was amazed at the creative techniques Trishka used to make a large, delicious meal seemingly from nothing.

The only problem whenever Yuriy and Sarah visited was Den, their young dog. She’d been a rescue, run over by a truck just last year and losing her front left leg in the process. Pinako created the automail replacement herself after Yuriy adopted her. She was a sweet little thing, very loyal and protective, especially of young Winry. But whenever Hohenheim and Den were in the same room, her fur stood on end. She would bark and growl incessantly at him, and none of them could calm her down until Hohenheim left the room. Yuriy apologized several times whenever this happened, but Hohenheim merely laughed and shrugged it off. “Animals don’t really like me much,” he stated. “It’s a whole thing, no worries.”

Winry befriended the two boys almost immediately, if not in a manner of enthusiastic and affectionate hostility. They bickered while they played, mostly her and the older boy, but after a short time Pinako could already see a tightknit bond between the three of them.

Pinako learned the boy’s names gradually over the course of the first few weeks, mainly through sneaky eavesdropping or accidental overhearing on her part. She could understand the Ishvalan conviction about names, and she would respect it by not asking directly - but she really needed something else to call them besides “runt” and “shortstack,” if only to herself.

At first she thought the older boy’s name was Ed, for that was often what she heard the younger one call him. She later learned that this was due to the boy having a slight lisp from teething, saying Ezra as “Edwa” or Ed for short. Ezra, for his part, called his baby brother Al. It was a frequent and obvious nickname, and it took a little more digging for Pinako to learn his full name was Ahlim.

Naturally, the day after all her investigative work came to fruition, Ezra and Ahlim walked into the kitchen side by side while Pinako made macaroni for Winry. And they introduced themselves. No fuss, no muss.

Winry didn’t seem surprised, happily eating her cheesy noodles, so she likely already knew. Pinako sighed wearily, about to thank the boys for their trust in her, when she caught a little smirk on Ezra’s tanned face. Ahlim, in contrast, was looking overly innocent for a young two-year-old.

She scowled. “You two played me,” she accused. How was that even possible?

Ahlim giggled, and Ezra’s smirk became a full-blown grin. “We wanted to see how long!” he announced. “Winry said you would guess in one week. I said three, and I was more right than she was.”

Pinako turned on her granddaughter. “You made a _bet_ on me?” she squawked. “Winry Rockbell!”

The girl shrugged, only slightly sheepish. “It was a game,” she defended, eating more noodles without a care. “I thought you would guess sooner.”

“You took so _long,”_ Ezra sighed, as if this was the greatest woe in his short existence. Ahlim laughed again, the same spark of intelligence behind his red eyes as his brother. Pinako was fairly certain this wasn't the common, respectful way of treating Ishvalan names. But Trishka sometimes told stories of her youth, of mischievous adventures and pranks. That lighthearted spirit must have passed down to the boys, and combined with Hohenheim’s intellect these two will be a force to be reckoned with someday.

“Rascals,” Pinako grumbled, waving them towards the table to sit for lunch. “Just for this, I’m gonna keep calling you runts.”

 

\---

 

Reports about the war came weekly, chaos and destruction raining down on Trishka’s homeland. But the resistance fighters were holding strong in every district, even Kanda where it all started over a year ago. It was because of Aerugo that they were matching the Amestrian soldiers in combat, the southern country sending supplies to Ishval in order to further their own gains involving the border.

Sometimes Trishka sat on the front bay window while the kids napped, listening to the news on the turn dial radio Yuriy had gifted Pinako a few years back. Though all of Ishval was on her mind, Trishka waited to hear information about one district in particular. Dahlia.

But the news stayed the same, time and time again. Occupation efforts, gunfights, stand-offs, small explosions, violent protests. No real major dent made in the Dahlia population, but no real change in the resistance efforts either. Still, Trishka held onto hope that her family was alive and fighting with the others.

In late August, Hohenheim decided to build them their own house. Things had settled down enough in Resembool, and both he and Trishka felt they had overextended Pinako’s hospitality, no matter how much the old woman denied it.

He wandered the nearby area for long hours, occasionally accompanied by Yuriy for assistance in finding the perfect, secluded location. After a couple weeks, Hohenheim chose the spot for his foundation: the crest of a grassy hill almost three miles away from Pinako’s house, clustered with a small grove of evergreen oaks. He led Trishka there early one morning, her face and hair wrapped in a scarf despite the absence of onlookers. Together they decided which trees would be used for lumber, and which would stay to help conceal the house from view.

With a combination of alchemy and old-fashioned handiwork, Hohenheim completed their new home by the end of September.

 

\---

 

Resembool was peaceful, Trishka found, in a different way than Ishval used to be. The isolation of their new home was quiet and calming, and the bountiful soil led to a mild gardening obsession. She planted fruits and vegetables of all varieties in a patch of sunshine that poked through the trees into the backyard.

But as fascinating as the lifestyle changes were, Trishka wanted to keep Ishval alive in her household. She wanted her boys to remember their clan, their history and culture so they wouldn't feel like strangers or outsiders when they all returned one day. Whenever that day may come.

So she told bedtime stories about the clan’s history. She wrote down all the recipes she could remember. She made sure to speak Ishvalan just as much as Amestrian. The latter was mostly for Ahlim, as he had only just begun learning to speak when they left Ishval. While staying with the Rockbells they mostly spoke Amestrian, which led to a lack of duality in Ahlim’s native tongue. Now he couldn't say or understand more than a few Ishvalan words, but Trishka was determined to change that.

One day in November, Hohenheim came home from his new job at a local sheep farm and was greeted by Trishka holding two small paper lanterns.

“It is the Festival of Lights,” she explained at his surprised look. “Or rather, it would be. I doubt anyone is lighting lanterns in Ishval tonight. But I thought we still could, for those who cannot.”

Hohenheim walked over and took one of the lanterns to examine. They were homemade and roughly crafted, but held together nicely. Instead of the usual message appreciating Ishvala for the oncoming winter, Trishka had painted her own message in Ishvalan script. She thanked her God for protecting her family, and asked that He guide the rest of the Ishvalans in the war and end the terror soon, so that she and her loved ones could return to the desert freely and safely.

“It’s perfect,” Hohenheim said, kissing her forehead. “We’ll light them at dusk.”

They invited the Rockbells over for the event. Winry, Ezra, and Ahlim played tag in the fading sunlight while Yuriy made a small firepit to warm the area. Trishka and Sarah went inside for a short while, returning with trays of Ishvalan snacks. They weren’t accurate in their ingredients, seeing as Ishval wasn’t exporting things like prickly pear cactus fruit, golden chia seeds, or mesquite tree flour over to Amestris anytime soon. But the recipes were traditional, if nothing else. Pinako and Hohenheim sat on the front porch and made more paper lanterns for everyone, since Trishka had only made the first two.

Trishka swore to remember every detail of this evening. The laughter of her children, the sharing of food and stories, the familiar company. As night grew nearer she began to see shapes in the darkness, tricks of the firelight. She saw faces she hadn’t seen in months, the sparking embers lighting their eyes red, the grey smoke wisping like hair in the wind. A knot of emotion formed in her throat, threatening to choke her like a noose.

Alas, when the time came to light the lanterns and release them to join the moonlit sky, she could barely admire the sight through the tears blurring her vision. Hohenheim went to her and held her close to his broad chest as she quietly wept. In sorrow, in regret, in guilt, but also in relief. Her boys were safe because she’d left her family behind to fight a nightmare.

 _“Madran?”_ Ezra whispered, tugging on the edge of Trishka’s shawl. “Mom, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

 _“I'm fine,”_ she murmured in Ishvalan, wiping her face briefly before kneeling down to embrace her beautiful boy. Ahlim ran over immediately, joining the hug. _“Madran just misses home, that's all.”_

 _“We can’t go back yet?”_ Ezra asked forlornly.  _“It’s been a long time. We could go back now, right?”_

Trishka sniffled, squeezing her eyes shut against more tears. _“Not yet, sweetheart. Not yet.”_

 _“Why not?”_ he whined. _“I miss cousin Lavani. And cousin Miklo, and Uncle Dhevra a-and Aunt Amira, and-”_

 _“Shh, baby. I know,"_  she soothed him, hugging him closer as he became distressed. "But it is okay," she continued, switching to Amestrian for Ahlim's benefit. "It is okay, you know why? Because we are still together. You, me, your _bhaia_ and your _Paatan_ are all here and safe. We will always be together, okay?”

Trishka looked up, then, at Hohenheim still standing tall above her. She had expected to see sadness and grief in his expression, one that mirrored her own. She had wished to see a glimmer of hope as well, a determined optimism regardless of the gloomy situation.

Instead she saw something else - a stricken look upon his pale face, golden eyes swirling with a single emotion.

Fear.

 

\---


End file.
